


taking the lēah

by evocates



Category: The Hobbit RPF
Genre: 1066 Norman Invasion of Saxon-held England, Alternate Universe - Slavery, Don't Examine This Too Closely, Historical Inaccuracy, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-01
Updated: 2013-12-01
Packaged: 2018-01-03 04:16:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1065638
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evocates/pseuds/evocates
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>William the Conqueror took England from the Saxons for the Normans. Richard Lionhearted, one of his favourites, took the Lord of the Lincoln for himself, and names him Lee.</p>
            </blockquote>





	taking the lēah

**Author's Note:**

  * For [the_widow_twankey](https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_widow_twankey/gifts).



> Some names have been changed to sound more Norman and to fit into the historical context. Despite that, this definitely isn’t very historically accurate. I tried my best, but research for this particular era is practically non-existent in English. For benedicia at tumblr for her prompt from months ago – sorry for the delay, babe!
> 
> Pictures:  
> Richard Lionhearted, Lord of Ashdown (South England): http://i.imgur.com/dOWZHiw.jpg  
> Lee (formerly Lēah, Lord of Lincoln, Central England): http://i.imgur.com/mDuO6NN.jpg

Harold Godwinson was a strong King, well-loved by his people; but the Normans’ conquest of the Anglo-Saxons was sanctioned by God: why else would he have sent the storms to delay them in Normandy? Surely if they had arrived in summer as Duke William had originally planned, they would have failed, for Harold’s armies were strong then. Besides, surely Harold was not so well-loved, or else his soldiers would have stayed instead of abandoning him during the autumn harvests.

But the orders were clear: kill all the strong warriors fighting underneath Harold. The young women and girl children could be taken as their thralls, but any man seen with a sword in his hand on the battlefield would have his throat slit. It would make the conquest easier: the Normans had learned from the Bible, from Moses’ conquest of the Promised Land. If any man was left alive, or any boy, he would eventually learn hatred and revenge. William, the First of his name, King of England, planned to take over the whole of the Anglo-Saxons’ lands and institute his own people as the ruling class; as a result, the Anglo-Saxons would have to die.

(Though, William had said to himself, laughing, that perhaps some could be left alive to become peasants. There would be need for hands to work the land, after all, and what sore hearts it will give to the enemies who have given them so much trouble!)

Richard knew his King’s decrees, yet his sword stilled upon the man kneeling at his feet. He looked at him now, from head to toe. The warrior – for he could not be anything else – was dirtied and wounded, cradling his broken arm against his chest. Long limbs he had; while he stood, he was just barely greater than Richard’s height, and Richard was one of the few men as tall as the King himself. Streaks of blood and dirt covered the defeated man’s face, and Richard’s sword was a bright silver glint next to the pale skin of his throat. Richard looked into his eyes and found a curious sight: there was rage, and anger; there was defeat; but there was also fear, a flickering of eyes downwards towards the sword held to his neck, as if he did not wish to die.

Something twisted deep inside Richard’s chest. Away from the battlefield, he would name it his heart.

“What is your name?” he asked eventually. He tipped his head to the side, and the flat of his sword slid gently against skin. A part of him thought that slim, long neck was beautiful with the glint of metal. He didn’t know if the man would understand him; their languages, after all, were different; and what need had any Saxon to learn the language of their enemies?

The man bared his teeth and growled, a guttural sound:

“ _Lēah._ ”

“Lee,” Richard corrected. He reached down and grabbed the newly-named man by his tunic, pulling him up, staring straight into dark brown eyes crowned by heavy eyelashes. “Your name is Lee, and you are now mine, whether or not you understand me.”

Lee barked a laugh, a harsh, hoarse sound. Richard had a distinct feeling that Lee _let_ him pull him up at his feet. “Your language is not so difficult to learn,” he said, tipping his head backwards. His Adam’s apple trembled with his words, and the sword’s blade cut through skin, and blood dripped into his already-soaked leathers. “Though it seems you can’t speak mine, conquering warrior,” he made the epithet sound a curse. “I said _Lēah,_ for the meadows and fields of my land.”

“You have no such lands now,” Richard replied mildly. “I name you Lee, because that sounds enough like a Norman’s name. A Norman’s name will suit you well, for now you belong to a Norman. Thank me for my mercy: I will not kill you, but you are now my slave.”

“Have I any choice in the matter?” Lee spits out, sounding annoyingly blasé despite the fear flickering in his eyes. “I wish for naught more than death.”

Liars are rarely well-loved by God, but Richard supposed that even if the Lord will not forgive this man his pride, Richard himself will. If only because he can understand it: if he is the conquered and is forced to be a slave, then truly he would rather have death instead. He smiled, calm and small, and Lee bared his teeth at him.

“If those words are true, your throat will not be trembling so much that it drives itself against my blade,” Richard replied. “Come.”

Blood and blades did not look well against Lee’s pale skin, Richard thought. His hand gripped onto Lee’s collar and pulled hard, dragging him forward. Lee followed, grunting under his breath and holding his arm even closer to himself. Yet he did not protest loudly, and followed Richard, his eyes still fixed upon the sword and the red, red blood that coloured the steel.

***

The Romans dressed their slaves in silver and gold, and gave them swords and axes and shields to hold. Their slaves were heroes, their names cheered in coliseums, and honoured with the title of _gladiator_. They were even paid and freed if they won enough battles, and they were warriors before they were slaves.

Maybe that was why Rome fell. Richard wasn’t entirely how the Byzantines treated their slaves anyhow, but he was rather certain that it was different. No matter how strong the Roman Empire had grown, they were surely fools for giving weapons to their slaves.

A pity, truly: Richard watched as Lee came out of the house to greet him, the fresh ink on his shoulder gleaming sweat-wet on his skin – a mark ensuring obedience – and thought that the former Lord of Lincoln surely looked magnificent with a sword or spear in his hand. When Richard had met him on the battlefield, he wielded an axe – a commoner’s weapon that was ill-suited to his delicate wrist. 

“You will see some of your countrymen tonight on the way to feast,” Richard said, tipping his head back to allow Lee’s hands to undo the leather straps of his armour. He had fought no battles today, but King William insisted upon his Lords appearing in front of him so dressed, so the Normans would not forget that they were warriors first, and the riches they now owned were won by virtue of sword and spear.

“They are no longer my countrymen,” Lee said lowly. He pulled away the stiff leather tunic from Richard’s chest and laid it on the table set in the entrance hall for precisely that purpose. “Those lowly creatures who surrendered their arms and accepted a conqueror’s decreed share neither blood nor land with me.”

Richard laughed. He turned around, gripping Lee by the jaw and pulling him forward, staring deep into those brown eyes. The fear he had once seen there had long faded, but Lee’s pride seemed to burn brighter with every use of the name Richard had given him. 

“What will they think of you then?” he said. “A warrior now turned a slave, with a Norman’s mark on his skin, little different from cattle or concubine. Or even one of your Saxon criminals, if the judges’ records spoke true.”

“You have taken all weapons from my hands,” Lee replied, narrowing his eyes. It would be simple for him to tear himself away from Richard’s grasp; yet he didn’t. “I could not fall upon my sword, as a noble should.”

“Surely you could have bitten off your own tongue?” Richard returned, cocking an eyebrow upwards.

Lee grabbed his face with both hands, crashing their lips together. Richard laughed, hearing the sound muffled by their joined mouths, and darted his tongue between Lee’s teeth. He stroked the canines gently, and is entirely unsurprised when Lee bit down and metal covered his tongue.

“I’d rather bite yours instead,” Lee said, and his smile showed all teeth. He tilted his head to the side. “Are you so unafraid of my knife finding your heart? Are you so certain of your position that you no longer fear your servants’ and slaves’ wagging tongues finding their way to the King’s ear?”

“I keep a wolf chained within my doors,” Richard replied mildly, his hand sliding by Lee’s arm to clench around the silver armband that was one of his marks of ownership. “I am not such a fool as to believe that wolves can be tamed, yet I find myself living in hope that the kindness and love I show towards him will turn his fangs away from me and towards my enemies.”

Lee snorted, pulling away. “Your people mark you brave, Richard Lionhearted,” he said. “Yet all I find in front of my eyes is a fool.”

Richard did not reply, only half-turning such that Lee could remove the chainmail skirt that was wrapped around his waist. Such a strange thing, he mused, that Lee’s ears always judged his true words to be lies, and his lies to be truth.

***

“The peasants were far too quiet as the King’s procession passed through the streets,” Algernon said, frowning. His expression cleared almost immediately, and he laughed. “Perhaps a law should be instated that will make it necessary for them to cheer.”

Richard took a sip of his wine. Algernon was one of the youngest lords favoured by the King, and his hot blood was rumoured to come from one of the Irish peasants who was once captured by the Normans, in the past when they were still Viking warriors who lived far up north in the cold Scandinavia. 

William roared with laughter, shaking his bald head as he reached over the table and slapped Algernon hard on the shoulder. “The peasants used to be lords, and I daresay they are still unused to their new station. It has been barely a year, after all, since we buried their King in the sand. They still have not learned how to cheer.”

“Yet if a law is passed to force them to do so, then perhaps it will grow upon them, and so will their love for you, my lord,” Algernon protested, obviously fighting a wince as he rubbed his shoulder. Richard hid his smile behind his goblet; the King did not know his own strength, and he wondered how Queen Matilda, tiny woman that she was, had dealt with it.

“Love and affection cannot be forced in such a manner,” he said. “’Tis like a weed: difficult to cultivate, and yet growing wild and unchecked in the most unexpected of places.”

William turned towards him, cocking his head to the side. “Then perhaps _you_ might teach us how to win the peasantry to our side, Lionhearted. Is that not a Saxon lord by your side, chained and collared?”

Beside Richard, Lee froze, knuckles turning white upon the handle of the jug of wine. Richard held out his goblet even though he had no real wish to imbibe more. It would give Lee something to do, at the very least, so he would not say something that might force Richard to kill him.

“Alas, I have yet to succeed.” He leaned towards his King, curling his lips up into a small smile. “This wolf beside me has yet to change into a loyal hound despite my best efforts.” He shook his head. “No matter; let us speak of more important things, my Lord. How goes the campaign in the North?”

William snorted, a frown immediately creasing his brows. “We have near the whole island except for troublesome Northumbria, even though most of the children of the former Earl around Yorkshire are still our hostages. I admire them for their gall, aye, but I’m tempted to burn down their coming harvest so they’d have to beg us south for food instead of fighting.”

“That might be a little too harsh, my lord,” a soft voice interrupted. 

Lord Viggo lounged on his seat a distance down from the King, his legs crossed. Viggo’s family was one of the latest to arrive to Normandy, so late that he was given a Viking name instead of a French or Christian one like the rest of them. 

“It might quell the rebellion _now_ , aye, but it will not endear your subjects to you, and your sons and grandsons will have to deal with insurgents in the future still,” Viggo continued. Like always, his counsel usually wise and measured – enough for him to gain favour with the King, despite being a generation older.

Still, there might be other reasons for his words now: Viggo’s hand was grasped tight around a silver chain that tied him to the slave beside him. If Richard remembered corrected, the thrall’s name was Shaun, one of the old Lords of York who was defeated by Viggo in battle. Richard lifted his head, meeting Viggo’s eyes as he gave him a small apologetic smile: in turning the subject away from something that would bother Lee, he had forgotten that there was someone else who played the same dangerous gamble with the wolf in his household.

“My heirs will have to find their own ways to hold fast to this land,” the King said, downing his goblet. “I’ve already made them Kings; the least they could do is to deal with ruling this land once I made all the Saxons obedient in my own time.”

Richard bowed his head, hiding his mouth behind his goblet once more. The Normans might have told the popular that they come to England because Harold had once promised the land to William, but anyone who had met the King themselves would realise that to be a transparent lie. Like Alexander the Great, the King was a conqueror more than he was a king; Richard’s only hope was that England would not end up like Alexander’s empire once William was dead.

“Besides, you all would advise my son on what to do, won’t you?” William continued. “If you’re worried about such things, then you better start thinking about what you would say to him, not to me.”

“Of course,” Viggo murmured, inclining his head. “’Tis a long way into the future; my lord will doubtlessly live for a long time yet.”

Richard’s eyes glanced towards Lee at the moment. He tugged on the silver chain, bringing Lee’s head down so he could whisper into his ear.

“Take my goblet and get me a new one from one of the castle’s thralls,” he murmured into Lee’s ear. “Rid your face of that anger before you return, Lee, lest the King sees your thoughts as treacherous.”

Lee nodded jerkily before he left. Richard watched the tensed set of his naked shoulders, the way the new ink rippled across the skin, and let out a breath through his teeth. He was playing a dangerous gamble every single time he brought Lee to the King – yet he could not leave Lee at during feast days either, for William did love to have the proof of his conquest set out in front of him.

It would certainly be easier if Richard had killed Lee on the battlefield instead of enslaving him, but he knew that he could not have done that either. Not when the sight of Lee, bloodied and defeated and still unbroken, was still imprinted deep within his mind.

Other men might fear for their immortal souls and God’s judgment for lying with men as they did with women, but for Richard, the danger was far nearer – right at the head of the table. All the Norman warriors here carried their arms with them even during the feast, Richard included; it would be too easy for Lee to attempt to kill the King, especially with him so close. If Lee ever lost his temper and made an attempt on William’s life, then both he and Lee would be put to death.

Somehow, the knowledge of Lee’s execution saddened him more than that of his own. 

Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw Viggo raise his goblet at him. Richard met his gaze once more, smiling wryly.

Fools they were; both of them.

***

“It would not be treachery,” Lee said.

Richard finished hanging his sword on his bedroom wall to look at Lee. His thrall had a strange habit of speaking his mind only when Richard had his back turned, as if he thought that Richard would not be able to tell his thoughts if he could not see his eyes.

“What wouldn’t be treachery, Lee?” he asked mildly.

“Killing William the Usurper,” Lee said, spitting out the title with so much venom that Richard was surprised that the wall hadn’t started melting because of it. “’Twill be the honourable thing to do, even if I might lose my life to it.”

“His Lordship is always surrounded by his Lords and guards; you will only be seeking death, and what honour is that?”

“What know you Normans of honour?” Lee said, narrowing his eyes. “When King Ethelred paid Dane-geld to the Vikings, he trusted them to honour their promise to not invade. Yet they dishonoured their promise the very next season, and crossed onto Saxon shores asking for more silver!”

Richard sighed, dragging a hand through his short-cropped hair. “If you insist upon holding the deeds of our ancestors against us, then let me tell you this: Harold Godwinson did promise England to King William to ensure his own safety, and yet when King Edward died, Harold took the throne for himself, breaking his own sworn word. Is that honour?”

“That is a tall tale,” Lee protested.

“I was in court when the promise was given,” Richard countered. “I saw it made with my own eyes.”

Of course, even then, William had realised that Harold would not keep his promise. He asked for it to give him some form of legitimacy, for even then he was unwilling to stay a Duke of Normandy and had his eye on England and its throne.

He reached forward and took hold of Lee’s arm, feeling the warm silver of the slave band against his own skin. Looking down, he removed it, letting the metal drop to the ground at their feet. 

“Do not throw your life away in an attempt on the King’s life,” he said, voice so harsh that it was barely more than a rasp in his throat. “It will cause me great grief to see you dead.”

“Truly?” Lee asked, raising his eyebrow. “Surely there are plenty of Norman boys who are willing to take my place; boys who can remove your armour and pour your wine as well as I can. Better, perhaps, for you do not have to worry about their loyalty.”

Richard shook his head. “I do not value you for those menial tasks,” he said.

“Or perhaps you’re afraid that your own life will be lost if I make an attempt at the King’s,” Lee continued, dragging out each word until they sound more like the guttural Saxon tongue instead of the musical speech of the French. “’Tis true rare indeed, to find a warrior who fears death.”

Closing his hands around Lee’s shoulders, he shoved the other man hard towards the feather bed. Lee tripped over his own feet before they fell hard in a tangle together, and his lips drew back in a snarl as he fought Richard’s grasp. Yet Richard had been practicing his skills of battle daily – if not in the small skirmishes that still happened throughout the land, then against the other Lords to make sure that the strength that had earned them England had not dulled – while Lee had been kept in the castle without access to weapons.

He grabbed both of Lee’s wrists easily and pinned him down. He took Lee’s mouth, tasting blood again as Lee bit on his tongue, reopening the wound that he had caused earlier in the day.

Like a wolf; like a weed; both impossible to tame. Yet if Lee could have been tamed, then Richard’s blood would not be set aflame like this. He shifted his grip, grabbing hold of thin wrists with one hand before he sank his fingers into Lee’s hair, pulling his head back so he could push his tongue into his mouth further. Lee made a sound, gasping deep in his throat, but his struggles shifted, changed, and he arched up into Richard’s grasp.

In this age of constant war and strife, there was little talk of love even amongst the peasants and women, much less amongst warriors. When the minstrels sang of Lords and solders, they talked of their bravery and passion on the battlefield, not in the bedroom. Despite the smell of vellum having been engraved into his mind from the books of histories that he had read, Richard still found the scent of new-polished metal and blood to be most familiar.

He kneed Lee’s thighs apart, gentling his hand on the other man’s face, stroking him from temple to chin. But Lee growled instead, bucking upwards, trying to escape Richard’s hand, and Richard grabbed his chin and crashed their lips together instead. 

One day, he would be gentler with Lee. Now, however – any attempts at such tenderness would only be seen as mockery, salting the wound already made with the loss of his land and kingdom. Richard knew battle best, and thus it was battle he would give Lee, rocking their hips together hard enough for the bones to jar against each other and muscles to scream in protest. Lee was gasping in his mouth, his nails digging into the knuckles of Richard’s hand.

Their passion was a fiery thing, but even in fire could things be made. Lee might be a wolf now, and it might be impossible to turn him into an obedient hound. Yet his will was iron, and iron could be melted and changed: Richard lived in hope that one day the passion they shared would forge Lee into a sword, as indispensable to Richard as his own right hand.

Perhaps then they could move together to seek pleasure amongst the flames instead of having to battle each other for every gasp, every strangled moan. Perhaps then they could find their own equilibrium, and fight together instead of against each other.

After all, a warrior had worth only when his sword was in his hand.

_End_


End file.
